


ask pardon for one thing

by coloredink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, San Francisco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dressed in a polo shirt and sandals and acting like he and John are married.  He asks strangers to take their photos in front of the sea lions and queues up for Ghirardelli ice cream and buys souvenir cable car ornaments for their Christmas tree.  It'd be nice if it weren't so fucking weird.</p><p>(<a href="https://ficbook.net/readfic/5936790">Russian</a> translation available.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	ask pardon for one thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ishmael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishmael/gifts).



> For Ishmael, whose idea it was. Thanks to Otter, PipMer, and Alithea for letting me spring a reading comprehension test on them.

The sky is pinkish plum, the way skies are over cities, with a few scattered stars peering feebly out here and there. The hotel lobby is massive and bright and marble. John feels like a piece of giftwrap that's been crumpled up and smoothed out again. His body thinks it's 5, but the clock says it's 21:00 the previous day.

"How many keys will you be needing?" the concierge asks. She's pretty and young and blonde, wearing that tender smile reserved for babies and newlyweds.

Sherlock gives her a dazzling smile. "Two, please. Just in case."

Their suite is on the 42nd floor. It has a couch, a chair, a TV, a microwave, a mini-fridge, and a stunning view of the Bay. John crosses to the window. It's all he can do not to press his face against it like a child.

"That's not the Golden Gate Bridge," says Sherlock. "That's the Oakland Bay Bridge. A common mistake. We can't see the Golden Gate Bridge from here."

John follows the view into the bedroom. The bed is big enough for four people. The window curves around the corner so that John can see skyscrapers reaching for the sky like shining, grasping fingers, neon signs, cars crawling along the street.

Sherlock follows him in. He looks at John, the bed, John. "I don't sleep when I'm on a case." He says it like he's not sure how John is going to respond.

"I know." John's legs still feel cramped from the long plane flight and the limousine ride from the airport. He can feel Sherlock looking at him. His palms prickle.

The door clicks. John turns around. Sherlock is gone, but a suitcase remains in his place. John sighs and starts unpacking.

\----

John was happy when he shared a flat at 221B Baker Street with his best friend and his lover, and every day was filled with the push and the pull of each other. They dined and chased and fought and snogged and John yelled at Sherlock to get his experiments out of the fridge and eat his vegetables, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and treated John like a manservant. John was never happier, not when he touched a girl's breasts for the first time at age 13, not when he finished medical school, and not the first time he learned that one of his patients lived.

Then Sherlock died.

\-----

The other side of the bed is uncreased when John awakens. He finds Sherlock stretched out on the couch in the living room, still in yesterday's clothes. It's unclear whether Sherlock slept. The sight is so familiar that it takes John's breath away.

"Oh, good," says Sherlock. "We've still time for continental breakfast." He leaps to his feet and jogs into the bedroom. When he emerges, it's in jeans and a polo shirt, with a small backpack slung over his shoulder. John stares. Sherlock furrows his brows at him. "What? We're on holiday."

\-----

John was angry when Sherlock came back from the dead. Glad, of course, but also angry. So angry that he threw Sherlock out of the surgery and told him not to come back. So angry that he didn't respond to _Mrs. Hudson asks when you'll be coming round for tea. SH_ or _Lestrade asked after your health. SH_ or _We're out of milk. SH_.

But when Sherlock texted him _22 Montgomery St, Canary Wharf. Could be dangerous. SH_ , John responded, _ON MY WAY._

\-----

"Excuse me? Will you take our picture?"

Sherlock scurries back to where John is standing in front of the giant prancing crab sculpture and puts his arm around John's shoulders. John pulls the corners of his mouth apart. The woman pushes the button, the camera whirrs and beeps and flashes, and Sherlock goes forward to take the camera again, giving the woman little half-bows and profuse thank-yous. John feels nauseous.

They go in the Hard Rock Café, an electronics shop, a left-handed shop, a shop devoted entirely to socks, and a Dreyer's ice cream. Sherlock purchases a scoop of Rocky Road in a cone. John doesn't want ice cream, so he buys half a dozen miniature doughnuts from the shop next door, doled out by a spotty-faced teenager. The doughnuts are warm and fresh and covered with powdered sugar and John is on holiday, so he will jolly well act like it.

Sherlock steals a doughnut. John slaps Sherlock's wrist. "Get your own."

Sherlock pouts at him. "But we're married! We share things now!"

John lets him have another doughnut and doesn't watch when Sherlock licks the sugar off his fingers.

"Oh, pearls!" Sherlock exclaims as they pass The Pearl Factory. A bucket of oysters sits on the counter; a sign guarantees a pearl in every oyster, $5 an oyster. "Let's, shall we?"

\-----

It's strange seeing Sherlock standing on queue to get on a cable car, making polite small talk with a family of five from Utah. It's even stranger seeing Sherlock _on_ the cable car, hanging onto a rail and being joggled this way and that when the cable car starts and stops. John has never seen him on public transport before, unless one counts the time they chased a suspect onto the Tube, which John does not.

But then, everything about this is strange. Sherlock is dressed in a polo shirt and sandals and acting like he and John are married. He asks strangers to take their photos in front of the sea lions and queues up for Ghirardelli ice cream and buys souvenir cable car ornaments for their Christmas tree. It'd be nice if it weren't so fucking weird.

\-----

They hold hands. John doesn't think they have ever held hands before. At least, not when they weren't handcuffed together at the time.

\-----

For two months, John didn't respond to Sherlock's texts unless they had to do with cases, because John needed the cases like he needed water in the desert. The rest of the time, he worked at the surgery and purchased newspapers he didn't read and stared into space. He slept badly at night.

When the black towncar came for him, he got in. There was no other option, and he had been expecting it. What he did not expect was for Eddie to be in the car as well. Eddie had been his "gay twin" in the Army: same hair colour, same height, roughly the same build. He was very glad to see Eddie.

Eddie's fiancé was there, too: a tall, thin bloke with curly dark hair. He introduced himself as Timothy Freeman. He worked for Mycroft, and he was in danger, despite being the underling of a minor government employee. But Eddie had a solution for that. He knew John Watson, who was friends with one Sherlock Holmes, recently returned to London and resumed his detective business.

"So, will you?" Eddie said. "Please?"

John was sure this was a setup. It was too perfect. But Eddie looked so certain, and Timothy looked so hopeful. He looked at their clasped hands.

"Yes," said John. "Yes, of course."

\-----

"Wait," says John. "You've been here before?"

Sherlock's eyebrows knit together. He is not in character in the hotel room. John insisted, and Sherlock decided there was no risk because Mycroft probably has the room swept for bugs thrice daily. "Yes, of course."

"When?"

"The most recent visit was...last year."

Last year, John was pinching the bridge of his nose in front of Sherlock's grave and taking deep breaths. Last year, John was moving out of Baker Street into a bedsit in St. John's Wood. Last year, Sherlock was in San Francisco, dining on dungeness crab at Alioto's. Last year, Sherlock was strolling along the pier in that stupid coat of his, no doubt looking very dramatic. John swallows and feels himself go still and numb inside. He marches into the bedroom and gets his jacket.

Sherlock follows him in. "John? Are you going out? Where are you going? You shouldn't go out alone, it'll blow the--"

"Piss off." John slams the door behind him.

\-----

He knew this was a bad idea, but he did it anyway. Story of his life.

\-----

John doesn't go very far. He doesn't know where to go. He crosses the street to the waterfront and finds a place to sit. The wind is cold, but John is warm inside his very nice windbreaker. It isn't his; it's Eddie's, purchased in John's size. He hopes he gets to keep it. It's a little bit late, but there are still people walking, huddled in their scarves and coats.

He hears someone come up next to him.

"Don't say anything," John warns.

Sherlock sits down next to John. He's wearing jeans, a hoodie, and trainers. And glasses. In character, even now. John stares out at the black water. The waves whisper against the concrete struts of the bridge.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "Shut up," says John.

"Why won't you let me _explain?_ " Sherlock demands.

John leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. He doesn't look at Sherlock. "Because you'll--you'll fix it. Or you'll think you fixed it. You'll explain and it'll be a fucking good explanation, and you'll, you'll be all _logical_ , and you'll logic me right back into 221B Baker Street and running around after you and cleaning up your messes, and not a fucking thing will have changed." He flexes his hands into fists and splays them out again. "And that's not, I'm not, that's not happening now. Because it can't be the same. You _died_ , and you didn't tell me, you just let me think that, right in front of me, and I'm fucking well furious at you."

Cars whisk over the bridge. The bridge lights reflect in the water below. The air smells like brine and fog.

Sherlock gets up and goes away.

\-----

Sherlock is already in bed by the time John goes back to the room, curled up so close to the edge that he might fall off. His breaths are deep and even. John gets in on the other side. They breathe at each other until one or both of them falls asleep.

\-----

"Come on," says Sherlock. So far John has gone with Sherlock without questioning, because Sherlock seems to have the public transit memorised (and now he knows why), but now he sees downtown being left far behind. The streets widen; the pedestrians lessen; trees spill out from the pavement.

"Where are we going?" John asks. "This isn't--"

"I know a place," Sherlock replies.

The place turns out to be Good Luck Dim Sum. The person behind the counter recognises Sherlock, even in a hoodie, and shoves them into one of four tables in the back. He brings them basket after basket of warm, steaming shu mai, sticky rice wrapped in bamboo leaves, pork spare ribs, lions-head meatballs, shrimp dumplings, steamed pork buns, and more. Even when John stuffed and protesting, the proprietor brings them more, speaking with Sherlock in fluent Cantonese, laughing and slapping Sherlock on the back. John's eyes bug.

They clean their plates and sit back in their seats to sip their cooling styrofoam cups of tea. John feels the peace of a man with an overfull belly. "How do you know this place?"

"He bleed all over the floor!" the proprietor yells from behind the counter, despite the line that has started to form out the door. He laughs, showing cracked, yellow teeth and waves his hands, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. "No police! No police! But my son a doctor." He puffs out his chest and pounds it twice with his fist. "After, Sherlock help three days. Three days. And he find my daughter husband." He grins.

Sherlock sinks his chin into his chest. John stares.

\-----

Golden Gate Park is well-trafficked for a weekday afternoon. Tourists stand on the pavement peering at their maps, but there are also people jogging with their dogs and parents pushing their toddlers in strollers. Sherlock and John walk side by side. Sherlock's hands are in his pockets.

"Well," says John, "if we had a cover, that blew it."

"Mmm," Sherlock replies.

They walk. Sherlock's hair ruffles in the breeze from a passing lycra-clad cyclist.

"So, what was that for?" John asks.

Sherlock doesn't answer, but John recognises the look on his face as one demanding more information.

"The dim sum," John clarifies. "That wasn't...in character."

"No."

Sherlock looks like himself, despite the hoodie and jeans. That's Sherlock's arrogance, Sherlock's haughty gaze, Sherlock's long, careless stride. John thinks of Sherlock, bleeding all over the floor of a dim sum restaurant. He wonders what happened.

"It was good, though," says John.

"Yes," says Sherlock. "I thought so."

\-----

Sherlock and John are alone on the path. The assassin steps out from behind one of the oaks. John sees a gun. He breaks to one side, and Sherlock to the other. The assassin aims at John and shoots. John hears the bullet strike the tree behind him, ducks, rolls. His knees remind him that he's no longer young. He hears Sherlock grunt as he collides with the assassin from behind. John darts forward and collects the gun from the leaf-strewn ground and looks for more attackers. He counts backwards from thirty before shoving the gun down the waistband of his jeans. These jeans are more close-fitting, and the gun doesn't fit as well.

Sherlock has their attacker face-down on the ground, pinning his arms behind him. John gets out his mobile and dials Mycroft. 

"You're not Freeman," the assassin grunts.

"Duh," says Sherlock. John gapes at him for a moment before bursting into laughter.

\-----

"That was like old times," Sherlock says later, in the elevator to the 42nd floor.

John doesn't know how to reply. To him, nothing will ever be like old times. The old times were before John knew that his best friend and partner faked his death.

"Well, usually the dim sum comes after," Sherlock muses. He used to be chatty, sometimes, after the successful conclusion of a case. Still is, John supposes. "But. Minor details."

John realises that they're supposed to go back to the hotel room and shag all over that gigantic bed. They can leave all the curtains open and fuck in full view, and no one will see them. No one will care. They can be loud, not that either of them was ever loud, but here, if he wants, he can scream. He can make Sherlock scream. This is why Sherlock looks so smug and rocks back and forth on his feet as he watches the display climb floors.

"Fuck you," John says. "Not like that," he adds, when Sherlock looks at him with raised eyebrows. "I mean. Christ." He slams the button for the 40th floor. He's not sure what he's going to do. Get out of the elevator and take the next one down, or take the stairs if he has to, but does he really think Sherlock's not going to follow him?

The doors open at the 40th floor, and sure enough, Sherlock seizes John by the wrist. "John," he says, low and urgent, like he's about to impart state secrets. But Sherlock has never imparted anything more than John needed to know, and sometimes not even then.

"Fuck off," says John. "You think I'm going to go up there and shag your brains out? Like 'old times'? It doesn't work like that."

"Why not?" Sherlock demands. The doors start to close, but John sticks his hand into them so that they whine apart again. Sherlock makes a frustrated sound, and his nails dig into John's skin. "You can't possibly _want_ this!"

He's right, and that makes John furious. Sherlock is always _right_. He shakes off Sherlock's grasp and steps out of the elevator. Sherlock makes to follow, but John holds up his hand. "Don't. Don't. Just. Go back to the room. I'll meet you there later. Just wait."

Sherlock waits, and the elevator doors close on him.

\-----

John paces the 40th floor from end to end before going back to the elevators and ascending two storeys. His mind buzzes with wasps. He keys open the door and nearly hits Sherlock with it as it opens. "Jesus fuck!"

"You don't want this," Sherlock says. " _I_ don't want this. This is--intolerable!" For a moment John thinks Sherlock is about to kiss him, and then he would be well justified in pounding Sherlock to a red mist. But instead Sherlock steps away and pulls at his hair. "You won't let me explain. You won't let me--grah!"

John watches Sherlock stride around the room waving his arms and ranting. He mentally trades jeans and hoodie for a bespoke suit. All they're missing is the string-and-notes map on the wall. John is a puzzle that Sherlock has been working on for months. John doesn't know whether he's flattered or upset by that.

"Stop." He grabs Sherlock's arm as Sherlock passes by. Sherlock snarls but doesn't shake John loose. "Stop. Stop. Stop." Sherlock glares at John.

"Why did you take me to dim sum?" John asks.

Sherlock stares at John as if he's very dim or a lunatic, or both. "Because you like dim sum."

"It blew our cover."

"Yes." Sherlock glances away. His teeth embed themselves in his bottom lip for just a moment. "I suspected that would happen."

"So you took me to dim sum, knowing full well that it would more than likely blow our cover and jeopardise the mission," John says, spacing out the words as if they'll stifle.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Once again, Sherlock gives him that look. This time, it tips in favour of "very dim." "I told you that already."

The simple truth: John _is_ tired of this. He knows well that he'll be pulled back into Sherlock's orbit eventually. But for now, he wants to be angry. He wants to stay away. He wants Sherlock to work for it.

"You liked it," says Sherlock. _Didn't you?_ hangs onto the end of that statement. "And it had the side effect of luring out our attacker, so all in all, it was a very successful day of work," he adds.

John feels a smile tugging at his mouth. This one feels genuine. "You missed me." Sherlock looks outraged, and John laughs. "I walked out on you yesterday, so you took me to dim sum today to make up for it, and in the process you thought it might lure out our assassins if we weren't surrounded by tourists all the time. A light round of hand-to-hand combat and mission accomplished, John's happy, you're happy, and everything's rosy, right?" He tilts his head back and gives a hearty laugh to the ceiling. He feels Sherlock relax under his hand, so he lets go and gives Sherlock a good, hard punch to the arm. Not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough that he should have felt it as a real punch. "You motherfucker!"

Sherlock rubs his arm and gives John an incredulous stare. John can't stop grinning.

\-----

They don't shag that night. They don't even kiss. But they do sit in bed together, and John lets Sherlock explain: the snipers, his confrontation with Moriarty on the rooftop, the collusion with Molly, and the interminable two years away from London. And John, Sherlock is hasty to add, but John knows his place in Sherlock's life. Sherlock reads people in an instant, but he spent years learning to read London.

"I had no idea you were going to be so _irrational_ ," says Sherlock. "You're always irrational, of course, but I didn't think you'd keep at it for so long. You came to the cases, you clearly missed the stimulation, and yet you were incredibly stubborn."

"Mmm," says John.

John pictures Sherlock, bleeding onto the tile floor of a dim sum bakery. Sherlock, being patched up by a local doctor. Sherlock, sitting at one of those tables in the back and eating fried sesame balls and chicken feet with a pair of bamboo chopsticks, and thinking, _John would like this place_. He wonders how often that happened, across two years and five continents.

"I know a wonderful sushi restaurant in the Castro," says Sherlock. "We'll go there tomorrow."

\---end---


End file.
